


a sunday kind of love

by softnow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, lazy sunday morning lovin', season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 11:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15484740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: sunday morning scully is maybe, possibly, his favorite.





	a sunday kind of love

He loves Friday night Scully, who trades her heels for socks and her suits for jeans and drinks beer curled up in his lap. She watches stupid movies with him and lets him rub her feet and eats popcorn-hold-the-butter and pizza-extra-mushrooms and falls asleep in his lap before midnight. Friday night Scully is his best girl, his best friend, the one who’s been with him since the beginning.

He loves Saturday night Scully, who takes her long bubble baths and he can hear her from the couch, splashing around in there, doing her Saturday Scully things. She comes to him draped in her silky blue robe, smelling like bergamot and sex, before the SNL monologue is halfway over. Saturday night Scully rides the life out of him on her living room rug and makes him believe in God, heaven, fate.  

But Sunday morning Scully… God, Sunday morning Scully. There is a whole galaxy in the solar system of his heart dedicated to Sunday morning Scully. First she comes awake in increments, not all at once like Monday morning Scully.

It goes like this: a stretch, a shuffle, a tiny little whimper, the tip of her air-condition-chilled nose in the crux of his shoulder. She’ll squirm closer to him, his very own heat-seeking missile, and sigh. Next, behold. She’ll blink up at him slowly, unevenly, her eyes soft and out of focus. A smile. Sometimes shy, sometimes not. It depends, he thinks, though he’s never empirically tested his hypothesis, on how good he fucked her the night before.

Then she’ll say something absolutely brilliant and amazing like  _hi_  or  _good morning_  and he’ll gather her up, tip her over, kiss every soft smooth inch he can reach. But gentle. Always gentle. He bruises Saturday night Scully, but soothes Sunday morning Scully.

If she wore something to bed, he’ll peel her out of it, but most of the time she saves him the trouble. She’s considerate like that, is Sunday morning Scully. She’s patient too, the most patient, far more patient than Thursday afternoon Scully. She lets him kiss and kiss and kiss and never complains, never rushes, only sighs her sweet soft sighs and touches him with her sweet soft hands.

Sometimes he’ll tell her things. Sunday morning Scully likes to listen. He’ll say things like  _did you know red is associated with Sunday in Thailand_  or  _did you know Sunday is the most popular day for watching porn_  or  _did you know I love you Scully I love you so fucking much_.

Sometimes she’ll tell him things too. Sunday morning Scully likes to talk. She’ll tell him things like  _I dreamt we were on a boat and you were laughing_  or  _I have to pick up my dry cleaning today don’t let me forget_ or  _Mulder Mulder Mulder_.

Sunday morning Scully likes slow, lazy sex, but she never seems particularly concerned about getting there. She’s indulgent, loath to rush it, content to let him lay his head on her thigh and rub her belly and watch his whole world unfurl. Sometimes, if the weather’s right, particularly cold and gloomy and close, he’ll tell her ghost stories. Sunday morning Scully is more receptive to them than Tuesday evening Scully, so he saves them up, the best ones, the ones that don’t really have anything to do with anything important, and presents them to her like hand-polished jewels.

She told him once that he has a radio host audio book voice, and he’s not sure he believes her, but he’s considered recording a few of these stories for her, for those weekends when they’re separated by time and distance and work. He doesn’t know how she’d receive them, though. She’d probably think he was overstepping, trying to wheedle his way into places he doesn’t belong, or leaving her extra work to do in his absence. It wouldn’t be so selfish; it would be more selfish. It would be because he needs to know that, even if he’s on the other side of the country, Sunday morning Scully is unfurling for him in her bedsheet palace and making slow, languid love to his voice.

He gets poetic on Sundays, and it’s the one day a week she doesn’t roll her eyes at him, so he lays it on thick as he travels to the center of the universe by slow, slow inches and watches her grow slick and red and open. Saturday night Scully is all silk seduction and flashbang passion, but Sunday morning Scully is a gentler creature. She lets him explore, lets him take his time, lets him touch and taste and feel until they’re both quivering messes, livewires of need.

But even then it’s slow. Slow, slow, slow. Slow like honey, like molasses, like nothing in the world matters other than this room, this bed, this woman. It doesn’t. It couldn’t.

Sunday morning Scully cradles him in her thighs and kisses him and rolls against him like the ocean. She says his name like it’s the only word she knows and runs her fingers through his hair and is so sweet, so loving, so warm and wet and perfect and beautiful that he never rushes, even when he wants to.

He’s never gone to church but Sunday morning Scully takes him with her, right there in his bed or hers. She throws back her head and he kisses the cross at the hollow of her throat and thanks her God and every god for this day, this woman, this life.


End file.
